Page 71 of O Goalie Night
BETH
“Everyone thinks that when you’re pregnant you can eat whatever you want.” Kim sets her hot dog down on her stomach and wipes her mouth with a napkin. “What they don’t tell you is that almost everything gives you heartburn. Everything I want to eat and everything I don’t want to eat. Bananas give me heartburn. BA-NA-NAS, for Christ’s sake.” She picks up the hot dog again, scowling at it. “I probably won’t get any sleep tonight because of this.”
I tear my eyes away from the action on the ice to give her a sideways glance. “But you’re still eating it?”
“I’m no quitter, Beth.”
Laughing, I turn back to the ice. Our seats are phenomenal, right behind the Otters’ bench. When Kim invited me to join her at the game, I assumed we’d be in the VIP box with the rest of the WAGs, but apparently my super pregnant friend prefers to be closer to the action. Her exact words were that she likes to watch the sweat roll off her husband.
Live hockey hits different. The energy in the arena is palpable; the roar of the crowd vibrates through my entire body, making every cheer and groan feel more intense. I can feel the chill of the ice, see the players' eyes tracking the puck, and hear the skates slicing through the rink. .
Everything comes together to create this larger-than-life immersive experience.
It’s like comparing watching a movie on your phone or viewing it in a huge theatre in 4k with surround sound.
I’ve been on the edge of my seat since the puck dropped. The first time a player was slammed into the boards, I jumped a foot into the air, spilling my oversized bag of popcorn. It sits untouched by my feet, safe from further spillage. Three minutes into the second period and the Otters are up by two, the tension sky high. It’s always been a surreal experience watching my brother play at this level, but he’s not the only person I’m focused on now.
Foster is playing another great game. I watch his every move as he guards his net. He crouches low, shifting from side to side as he follows the play, ready to block any shot that comes his way. Each time an opposing player winds up for a shot, he reacts with lightning speed. It’s as if he can sense the trajectory of the puck before the player sends it to him.
He’s a living, breathing fortress of calm amid the chaos of everything else happening on the ice, and when I look at him, I can’t help but feel awe.
And so turned on.
I thought I was attracted to Foster before we started dating, but this past week I’ve really levelled up. Is it normal to crush this hard on someone you’re actually seeing? It’s swoon city over here.
As though reading my thoughts, Kim tugs on the sleeve of my jersey. I bought it to support Ben when he signed with the Otters.
“I wasn’t sure whose jersey you’d be wearing tonight,” she drops casually before taking a sip from her sparkling water.
I chew on the inside of my lip and watch the shift change. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“After I saw the two of you barely refrain from eating one another’s faces, I thought you might be wearing a different number.”
The truth is, I’m dying to talk to someone about Foster. But I can’t. The more people who know, the more likely something will get back to Ben and my life is complicated enough right now.
Shrugging my shoulders I say, “This is the only jersey I own.”
I really like Kim and I feel like I can trust her, but this thing with Foster is too new and we’re trying to keep it quiet. We need to keep it quiet.
Ben has been off his game lately, both literally and figuratively. I’ve texted him a few times this week to check in, but he left me on read. He couldn’t even be bothered to send me his signature thumbs up emoji.
His behaviour on the ice has been concerning me, too. He’s stopped making his usual outlet passes, isn’t clearing the puck like he used to, and has racked up more penalties than normal for slashing or cross-checking.
I’m worried about him and all the more convinced I need to keep what’s going on with Foster and me to myself.
“It must have been someone else ogling him,” Kimadds as she leans forward to rub her lower back. “Matter of fact, it could have been her.”
I follow her gaze to a young woman several rows over from us in the stands. She’s wearing Foster’s jersey, tied up to expose her midriff and low cut jeans. Over her head, she holds a sign that says “FUTURE MRS. JAMES” in huge red letters.
A tight knot of jealousy twists in my stomach. It’s irrational and I hate it. Foster probably has legions of women who would love to be with him. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve seen someone holding a sign with his name on it.
But it’s the first time since he’s been mine.
The realisation hits me like a locomotive.
Foster James is mine.
He hasn’t said the words, but he’s been showing me all week. Longer, even.
